


melted

by ssstrychnine



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bathtubs, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Black Panther (2018), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Sharing a Bed, Wakanda, steve visits bucky an bucky takes a bath i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 01:19:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15546435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssstrychnine/pseuds/ssstrychnine
Summary: “Hey,” comes Steve's voice, and he's standing in the doorway, and he's frowning. He crosses the room in two strides, kneels in front of Bucky in one smooth motion. He picks up Bucky's hand, a fist, balled up and kneading painfully at his thigh. He hadn't... he hadn't noticed. Steve doesn't say anything, just gently uncurls his fingers from his palm, until his hand is flat and open, pats at it once, stands up. “Clothes off,” he says.“You're wet,” says Bucky, through numb lips. He is, his shirt is soaking wet down the front, sticking to his torso.“Lost a battle with a faucet,” says Steve, grinning ruefully, like he hadn't known that water might splash if you turn it high enough. It's enough to make Bucky laugh, a scratched out sound, and Steve’s expression melts into something more relaxed. “C’mon,” he says.





	melted

**Author's Note:**

> just a warning for the dream bucky has. it involves remembering being the winter soldier, on the bridge, hurting steve. so.

Winter in Wakanda isn’t like winter in Brooklyn. Unless you make the trip to Jabari, there’s no snow, and even then it’s different. Jabari is stark mountains, beautiful jagged rock cutting into crisp still air, snow that feels like it’ll swallow you if you step wrong. Brooklyn, the Brooklyn that Bucky had known, was a sky crowded with buildings in shades of brown and grey, snow piled high in outside corners, up walls, but trodden into muddy slush where people walked the most. A dirtier sort of winter, but one that he knows better, something he can remember even when he can’t remember anything. The smell of smoke and snow.  
  
Steve doesn't visit often, and then he stops coming entirely. Bucky thinks it's probably something to do with T’Challa opening up Wakanda to the world, thinks he might be one of the last secrets they have left, and he tells that to Shuri one day, while she pulls threads of memory from the fog of his head and patches up what couldn't be fixed by a deep freeze, and she laughs, winks extravagantly.  
  
“Don't worry, Furiosa,” she says, “we have some surprises still.”  
  
He likes Shuri. He tries not to, because friends are dangerous, they're leverage or they're examples to be made or they're cannon fodder, but it's hard not to like Shuri. Wakanda is a fortress after all, and she's easy to be around. The smartest person he's ever met, a baby genius, and comfortable with her intelligence like people twice her age might never be. She helps him pick out real memories from false ones but she also shows him movies he's missed, plays him music, teaches him Wakandan dances until she's breathless with laughter and he's breathless with the sort of joy he hasn't felt since... well. Since before the war, maybe. With Steve in Brooklyn. She calls him Sergeant Barnes until he tells her not to and then she calls him Bucky and then they watch Mad Max together and she calls him Furiosa. They might be friends, if friends were a thing Bucky had.  
  
“Your Steve will be here in a day or so,” she says, then, carefully mild. “In case you were wondering.”  
  
“Not mine,” he says, something he's said before. “T’Challa talked to him?”  
  
“You can talk to him too, if you’d just take the phone I got for you.” She makes a face, hugs herself like she's experiencing something  unpleasant. “Your off the grid thing is seriously weird.”  
  
“It's not safe.”  
  
“You think I don't know how to give you a secure line?” She hums dismissively. “Whatever, Bucko. You want to watch anything tonight? Nakia thinks you'll like Dirty Dancing.”  
  
“Yeah,” says Bucky, “yeah, okay, I’ll make popcorn.”  
  
He leaves the city after dark, full and warm and tired. He's always exhausted after a session with Shuri, even though she tries hard to gentle it with food and movies and conversation. It works sometimes, but it also feels a little bit like putting a band-aid over a severed artery. Not even bottomless bowls of salt and sweet popcorn can save him. Not even a country that seems so far in the future, like he feels so far stuck in the past. Not even a kid who shouldn't have that sort of responsibility in the first place.  
  
The house they've given him is small, two rooms and a bathroom with an enormous tub, lined in tiny blue and white tiles. It’s the first time in a long time that he's had somewhere for himself. He'd sort of had it in Romania, a dirty room and a flannel lined sleeping bag on a mattress on the floor and a book full of all the things he couldn't remember, but that had been... temporary, a hiding place. And before that, a deep freeze, a place made to keep him stuck in time, a cold ache he still has. This place is comfortable, hopeful, plaster-white walls and woven rugs and windows that let in the sun. Grass and then the lake and the city, in the distance. The fucking goats in their post and rail pen. He'd asked for responsibility, some way to help, thinking they'd have him moving heavy shit or pouring out whatever intelligence he could manage without throwing up, but T’Challa had given him goats to tend to. Bucky is determined to keep them whole and well and if he can't, he’s pretty sure he should be kept away from living things altogether. They seem happy so far. They eat from his hand sometimes, and butt at his thighs to get attention.  
  
He knows that someone is there before he sees them. A darker patch of night. But they move before he can, a very deliberate step into the light. Not Captain America, just Steve, hands in pockets, jeans and a sweater.  
  
“Steve,” says Bucky, stopping dead. “You're early.”  
  
“I’m on vacation.”  
  
Bucky smiles. “No you're not.”  
  
“Involuntary vacation,” says Steve, mouth twisting. “Sam’s idea, he thought I needed a break.”  
  
“So you came here?”  
  
“Yeah.” Steve looks a little uncertain then, and he scrubs a hand through his hair. It’s longer, his hair, pushed back from his face, and he’s all shadow and stubble. The Steve Bucky knew couldn't grow a beard if you paid him. It looks... good. Maybe they're both a little wild at the edges now. Being a fugitive’ll do that to you. “That okay?” he asks then, startling Bucky from his thoughts.  
  
“Yeah, course,” he says, pushing forward. “Come in.”  
  
Steve follows him inside and in the light he looks more like himself. Lit up with warmth. He's always been that way, has always been the person Bucky measured himself against, even when it seemed impossible.  
  
“You hungry?” he asks, rolling his knuckles against the bench that splits the room in half. “I ate with Shuri, but I can get you... whatever you want. They have... Uber Eats here now, so. I mean, I don’t really know what that is, but Shuri knows how to do it.”  
  
“You're making friends then?”  
  
“Nah, she babysits me.”  
  
“Glad someone is.”  
  
“Well, you're out there defying the government or saving the world or whatever.”  
  
“Something like that.”  
  
Bucky grins and Steve laughs and it feels... good. Normal. Bucky can feel the whole day falling from his shoulders like it’s a physical thing and not just time. Like it’s water. Steve smiling can do that to a person. A spring day in winter. And then he reaches out and Bucky falls into him, slides his hand up between Steve’s shoulder blades and breathes him in.  
  
After one of his earliest sessions with Shuri, all Bucky had been able to remember was touching Steve. Not something specific, just the sensation of touch, just a mess of time. Their childhood together, crowded limbs and overlapping lives and growing pains. Holding hands when they were thirteen, then just Steve grabbing Bucky's wrists, then just Bucky touching Steve's narrow shoulders. He remembers... _wanting_. Wanting more of it, Steve's hands, his waist, his throat. And he'd left Shuri feeling sick with it and he'd split his knuckles around it and chewed his mouth to bleeding and then he'd slept for something like two days. He's seen Steve since then, and they've touched since then, but it always feels raw and new and hard to believe. Easy though, most of the time, to fit themselves together again.  
  
They sit together on Bucky's sofa then, and try to catch up on a fraction of their lost time. Bucky doesn't ask what Steve's been doing as an ex-Avenger and Steve does ask about what Bucky’s been doing with Shuri, but when all Bucky can do is shrug, he doesn't push it.  
  
“You like it here?” he asks, instead, leaning forward, earnest from his eyebrows to his toes. “We can... we can find something else if it's not working.”  
  
“I love it here,” says Bucky, quietly. “It’s... safe. Or as close to safe as I'm ever gonna get. I can't hurt anyone here.”  
  
“But are _you_ okay?”  
  
“Getting there,” says Bucky.  
  
In truth, he's not sure he’ll ever reach okay, not sure he'll ever reach the person Steve had known. And Steve insists he's in there somewhere but... well. It’s hard to see. There are things that help sometimes, and his small place is filled with softness, cushions and throws and woven rugs. He likes them because it's hard to think of the rigid line of Kevlar when you're touching loops of wool or the plush of velvet. Hard to think of a mask, the edges biting into the skin under his eyes.  
  
With Steve next to him it's easier still. Bucky thinks about him a lot, in the months between his visits. About how much they still have between them, so much it doesn't seem like there could ever be time to get through it all. Too much blood and too many bruises. Enough bullets to outfit an army. It stops mattering with him there, actually _there_ , in the flesh, warm against Bucky's side in Wakanda in the winter.  
  
“I saw your goats,” Steve says, half-smiling now, drooping, head practically resting on Bucky's shoulder. “You a farmer now?”  
  
“All they ask me for is food and water,” says Bucky, tilting his face up to the ceiling. He pulls back from Steve, but only so he can drape his arm along the back of the couch, not quite bridging Steve's shoulders, but close.  
  
They share Bucky's bed, like they have before, in Brooklyn winters and as frozen-earth soldiers, places too cold to worry about what that might mean away from it. He’s too tall for the couch anyway. Bucky's missed him too much anyway. And Steve falls asleep quickly, curled up on his side, facing Bucky, his eyelashes catching any light left in the room, casting spiky shadows across his cheeks. Bucky lies awake longer, frowns at the ceiling, thinks that if he dares look back at Steve, he’ll be gone, magicked away like a kid stolen by fairies. Like Orpheus looking back to Hell. Eventually though, he falls asleep, sent there by the even sound of Steve breathing, and then...  
  
...and then there's blood in his mouth. Or maybe... maybe it's something metal, something rigid up against his gums, set to break his teeth if he tries to fight it. Maybe both, blood and bite. It's dark, too, faded night time, grainy and warped, like photos in newspapers. Old newspapers, the sort that Steve bought every day, that they’d read together, cover to cover, with Steve licking the pad of his thumb to turn the pages. There's a grinding, rumbling sound in the air, a metallic sort of thunder, and there is gunfire coming from somewhere close. He looks to the sky, watches lines of light drifting through the purple dark. He knows they're bullets, but they don't look fast or deadly against the night, just beautiful, like shooting stars.  
  
And then he's a soldier walking through the dark. Heavy boots and something covering his face and rigid fabric, thick at his waist. He knows the road under his feet, somehow, the grain in the asphalt, though there's not much else he can see. It’s a bridge. He’s been here before. His fingers curl into his palm, the folds of metal stretching at the knuckles, and part of him knows he doesn't have that arm anymore, but he can't seem to get rid of it. There is blood in his mouth and Steve is nearby somewhere. Blood in his mouth and his fingers curl. Blood in his mouth and he's straddling Steve and his fingers curl at his throat, pulling bruises from his skin so easily it seems impossible, except Bucky knows he can bruise anyone with just a touch. His fingers curl. Steve's eyes are open and they’re the brilliant endless blue of the sky. His fingers curl and Steve's throat collapses under his hand and he wakes up screaming and Steve is there, whole and alive, and Bucky throws himself backwards, off the bed, slamming back against the wall so hard he feels the plaster shudder and crack.  
  
“Bucky,” Steve is saying, over and over. He’s on the other side of the bed and he looks... scared. Bucky feels sick, his whole body is shaking from the inside out, and there's... he can still feel his left hand, muscles and bones even though... even though it had been metal in his dream and is air now. Steve’s throat had been... Steve’s hands are held out, flat against the air, like Bucky's some... some rabid dog, and he _is_ , he is that, but- “ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says again, more insistently this time, and Bucky looks up, from his hands to his face. Maybe not scared, maybe just worried. “You want a bath?”  
  
“What?” Bucky growls, and it hurts a little, to speak after screaming.  
  
“You always liked them, back in Brooklyn, twice a day if you were feeling low, even though it took all the hot water,” he continues. There's a wrinkle between his eyebrows and he doesn't move, he stays where he is, so far away. “You have a tub?”  
  
“I.... yeah,” says Bucky.  
  
“You okay to stay here while I go get it running?”  
  
“Yeah,” he says again. He licks his lips. “Hot,” he says. “Please.”  
  
So Steve disappears and a moment later water starts running and Bucky is still shaking, but he's gotten rid of most of the edges of his dream. He slides down the wall until he's sitting on the floor. He presses his right palm to his left shoulder, slides it over and down, holding his breath, until he's met with old scar tissue and empty space. No metal. Nothing from the mountain that built Wakanda. He exhales. There’s no blood in his mouth either, just the sticky taste of sleep. Sometimes, in his dreams, he bites his tongue so badly it's hard to eat for days.  
  
His skin feels sharp, sensitive, so he stares at his knees, the fabric covering them, plush and soft. There's nothing left of him. There's blood in his mouth. He picks at the inside seam of his sweatpants, stares at his flesh hand until the colours blur. There's... there's Steve, running him a bath, and there's Shuri, calling him names, and there's T’Challa, sharing his home and his people and his fucking goats. It had felt like spring only hours before, when Steve smiled. He should've... he should've known this would happen, he always dreams afterwards, he should’ve remembered.  
  
“Hey,” comes Steve's voice, and he's standing in the doorway, and he's frowning. He crosses the room in two strides, kneels in front of Bucky in one smooth motion. He picks up Bucky's hand, a fist, balled up and kneading painfully at his thigh. He hadn't... he hadn't noticed. Steve doesn't say anything, just gently uncurls his fingers from his palm, until his hand is flat and open, pats at it once, stands up. “Clothes off,” he says.  
  
“You're wet,” says Bucky, through numb lips. He is, his shirt is soaking wet down the front, sticking to his torso.  
  
“Lost a battle with a faucet,” says Steve, grinning ruefully, like he hadn't known that water might splash if you turn it high enough. It's enough to make Bucky laugh, a scratched out sound, and Steve’s expression melts into something more relaxed. “C’mon,” he says.  
  
Bucky gets to his feet and follows him, taking off his clothing as he goes, kicking off his sweatpants and throwing his t-shirt onto the bed. He keeps his underwear on. The bathroom is full of steam already, blue and white and grey, and the water is swirled through with eucalyptus oil, a smell Bucky likes because it's sharp, keeps him awake when he feels close to drifting. He steps up and into the water and Steve is behind him, close, and Bucky wishes he would touch him, his skin, his waist, but he doesn't. Bucky sinks into the water with a sigh. It feels like pins and needles against his skin, almost hot enough to be painful, but not quite.  
  
Steve sits on the floor, next to the bath and Bucky. He rests his elbow against the rim, dangles his hand over the water, touching it with the tips of his fingers, so gently that it seems to cushion under him. He come close to touching Bucky, his left shoulder, and Bucky doesn’t really like to think about it, folded skin, the word _stump_ , but he supposes that's what it is. What's left of him. He sinks lower into the tub, so he can't see it. Steve flicks him with water.  
  
“Chin up,” he says.  
  
"’m fine,” mutters Bucky. “Peachy.”  
  
"Yeah, a real ray of sunshine."  
  
Steve flicks him with water again and Bucky slides forward until he can tilt his head back, push himself under the water. He shuts his eyes. The heat stings his eyelids. He listens to the sound his body makes against the ceramic, the slow echo of his heartbeat, the warm pull of water against his skin, and then he struggles back up again, scrapes his hair away from his face. Steve is still there, still touching the water.  
  
"Is it because I'm here?" he asks, voice brittle suddenly, though he tries to hide it. Cracked earth.  
  
"I don't know," says Bucky, truthfully. Steve is often in his dreams, but it's not... they're not usually like that.  
  
"Should I leave?"  
  
"No," he says, “don- please don’t.”  
  
Steve nods, makes a sound in the back of his throat, like a half-swallowed sigh. And he does touch Bucky then, puts his hand on his shoulder, thumb dipping down over folded skin and scar tissue, then sliding around to the back of his neck. Bucky bows his head, and the ends of his hair touch the surface of the water. Steve's hand is warm and solid and comfortable. Not like the sharpness of the hot water, more like waking up after a dreamless sleep.  
  
"Y'know I'm not scared of you," Steve says then, pulling back slightly, still leaving his hand on Bucky's skin, his fingertips just barely at the nape of his neck, where his wet hair parts and falls.  
  
"I know," says Bucky, and that's definitely true, at least. He resists the urge to push himself back more firmly into Steve's grasp.  
  
His dream has almost gone now, just a road in his head, and the ice under his skin feels melted. The smell of eucalyptus makes the skin under his eyes feel thin, a little itchy, but not in an unpleasant way. He wants... he wants Steve’s hand to move, through his hair maybe, something he can feel, the scrape of blunt fingernails or the curl and tug of his knuckles or-  
  
“Is it nice?” Steve asks, and his voice is low, it seems to move with the steam, a slow curl of heat that pulls against Bucky's ribs.  
  
“Is what nice?” He feels half-asleep, half-drowned, in love. Same as always. Since he was thirteen years old. Like a movie; at first sight. Like a lightning strike.  
  
“I’d join you,” says Steve, “but I don't think I’ll fit.” His knuckles drag along the line of Bucky's shoulder blade and then he's gone.  
  
“The Steve I knew wouldn't let that stop him.” Bucky leans forward, muffles his smile against his arm, braced against his knees. His skin is warm, soft, a little bitter from the oil in the water.  
  
“The Steve you knew was ninety pounds soaking wet.” Bucky can hear him smiling too, though he doesn't turn to look.  
  
“A bigger man than you, then.” He buries his face further into the crook of his arm, to hide his grin. Steve laughs, like he's surprised, delighted, full and loud and warm. Bucky wonders if it feels like yesterday for him, that they were together like this.  
  
“Do you remember... We did that once, took a bath.”  
  
“In all our clothes,” says Bucky, turning to look at him. Steve is leaning back against the tile-studded wall, haloed in cream and blue. His eyes are closed. It had been when his mum died, Bucky thinks, but he doesn't say it. Sarah. Sarah with silver in her eyes. He remembers... Steve's thin shoulders and the white cotton of his shirt, soaking wet and see-through, and the hollow feeling loss left in the air, a taste like rust and salt. They'd stayed together in the water until it was cold and they were both shivering. Bucky remembers their ankles crossing, like a zip, and he remembers peeling Steve out of his clothing afterwards, swallowing the urge to make a bad joke about how he'd thought it would be different, getting Steve naked.  
  
“Of course, then I got sick,” says Steve, opening his eyes, “and you had to scrape me off the floor every night for a week.”  
  
“Easiest thing I ever did.”  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
Bucky rolls his eyes and Steve makes a face, his mouth pulled down at the edges and a wrinkled nose. Cute, but tired. Bucky thinks that if Steve really did climb into the water with him, he wouldn't be able to stop laughing long enough to figure out what it meant. Their knees would be pressed together and the water would overflow and if they damaged the plumbing somehow, Shuri would never let it go.  
  
“You feeling any better?” Steve asks, then, glancing at him sidelong.  
  
“Yeah,” says Bucky. “Thank you.”  
  
They stay for a little longer, until the water is only warm and the oil on the surface starts making Bucky feel sick instead of sleepy. Steve stands up and he offers a hand and Bucky takes it, and it's never graceful, getting out of a bath, but Bucky only slips a little, kicking out the plug. He steps out of the tub, onto the curled wool bath mat, and Steve lets go of his hand, but only to grab a towel, fluffy and green. He drops it onto Bucky's head, blocking out his sight with soft dark, and for just an instant, Bucky feels panic at the edges of his spine, behind his eyes, but then Steve's hands are on him again, scrubbing the water from his hair, rough and blunt through the fabric of the towel, and he laughs instead. He bats Steve's hands away, though, and takes over with the towel, drops it to hang around his neck. Sometimes he forgets he's one hand down, throws his towel onto his bed in frustration and just lies on it until he's dry, angry at himself and at the world and at cleanliness as a necessary part of life. When he first woke up, he refused to get his hair wet until Shuri yelled at him, like he was the child not her. _Wash your hair or shave it off, Furiosa, maybe Okoye will let you join the Dora Milaje._ Still. It’s hard. He should convince her to make him a prosthetic, something that isn't built for death.  
  
“You look drowned,” says Steve.  
  
“You look stupid,” mutters Bucky. He fiddles with one corner of the towel, digging his fingernails into the fabric. It’s becoming increasingly obvious how weird this is. He’s standing in his underwear, wreathed in a towel and in steam, dripping on the floor, and Steve is... he’s frowning and he keeps rubbing at the back of his neck and his t-shirt is still wet and his hair is everywhere and... well. The bath makes a horrible gurgling sound as the water drains away. Bucky thinks he’s going start laughing in about two seconds, or throw up, or throw himself at Steve. He bites his tongue. Steve clears his throat.  
  
“I was wanting to... I came here because I wanted to talk to you about something,” he says.  
  
“Okay,” says Bucky. Maybe he’s come to tell him he has to leave Wakanda, he has a job for him, he needs someone hurt, except. No. Steve wouldn’t do that. Water drips down the curve of Bucky’s calf. Maybe he’s come to tell him he’s staying for awhile.   
  
“I just... I don’t want to fuck anything up, and I-”  
  
“What the hell are you talking about?”   
  
“You’re here and I'm here and I don't want to waste anymore time, but I also don't want... I don't want to do anything that would make you uncomfortable.”  
  
“I'm already practically naked, what could you possibly do?”  
  
“Kiss you.”  
  
“Oh,” says Bucky. There’s something wrong with his lungs suddenly. With his heart. He’s standing in his underwear, wreathed in a towel and in steam, dripping on the floor, and Steve is... staring at him, eyebrows doing that thing they do when he’s worried. “Oh,” says Bucky, again. Why the fuck are they still in the bathroom? “That’d... that’d be alright.”  
  
“Alright,” echoes Steve. His voice is almost lost in steam.   
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“You... you wanna put some clothes on first?”  
  
“Not particularly.”  
  
“Right.”   
  
They stare at one another. Bucky feels close to bursting into flame, and then Steve steps forward and he doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. He tries to focus on his breathing, on keeping his shoulders relaxed, his jaw unclenched. It’s still so easy for his body to fall into fight mode. It’s still so hard to accept touch without violence. But really, it’s too stupid to take so seriously. They’re staring at each other in a damp bathroom in the middle of the night, half-clothed and hesitant. A hundred years between them, and ice and bullets. So Bucky rolls his eyes, grabs Steve by the collar of his wet t-shirt, tugs him closer, a handful of fabric and warmth underneath. And Steve laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners, and he brings his arms up and over Bucky’ shoulders, pushing the towel off and onto the floor. Skin on skin. Bucky kisses him, still smiling, soft and careful; not heated, but warm. Bucky’s hand at Steve’s throat, stretching out the neckline of his tshirt, curling his fingers under the fabric, to his skin. Steve’s hands, pulling Bucky closer still. They kiss and Bucky feels... relieved. Exhausted. Like his legs might give out under him. He pushes forward, knee between Steve’s thighs, and Steve laughs under him, tries to push back and slips a little against the wet floor.  
  
“Careful,” Bucky murmurs, pulling back, shifting his hand to Steve's shoulder to steady him.  
  
“I’m always careful.” Steve’s grip on him loosen pointedly and Bucky laughs.  
  
“Like hell you are," he says.  
  
“Should we... d’you wanna go back to bed?”  
  
“Pretty forward of you, Rogers,” says Bucky, quietly. He watches Steve through the fall of his hair, still wet, grins when he blushes.  
  
“Not what I meant,” he says. “To sleep, I mean.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“You feeling okay?”  
  
“Yeah,” says Bucky. “It’s good to see you. I... I miss you when... when you’re not here.”  
  
“I miss you too, Buck.”  
  
They go back to bed. Steve helps Bucky get his hair a little drier, grabs him new clothing to sleep in, primly turns his back when Bucky changes, though he’s laughing as he does it. They fall back into bed, kiss a little more, under the comfort of darkness. Bucky feels... unraveled. Complete. He'll fall asleep soon and he won't dream. And he knows that Steve will leave soon, but it doesn't really matter. They've had a hundred years apart almost. A little longer, without ice, without blood, is nothing. Steve's mouth is warm and Bucky's little house is warm and Wakanda is warm. Even in the winter. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is the. first time i've written these kids. and im terrified of course. i hope you like it! please let me know what you think! thank you for reading!


End file.
